


Polite Company

by PetitAvocat



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetitAvocat/pseuds/PetitAvocat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of DA:O and just before the events of DA2, a wandering ex-Crow stumbles upon a similarly-wandering ex-slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my tumblr, [veinsoflyrium](veinsoflyrium.tumblr.com)! new chapters will probably show up there first, but everything'll be posted here eventually too :)

The ground is cold, but the air is colder. Fenris pulls his cloak tighter around himself, and tugs the hood low over his brow, hiding his distinctive hair. He is not sure whether his patch of dirt has warmed up at all from his body heat, but he does not fancy shifting position to find out.

He lies down, back pressed tightly against a wall, and tries to sleep. He does not dream, and is thankful for it.

Some hours later he jerks awake to the sight of brown leather boots in front of his face. He bolts into a sitting position but is stilled from standing upright by sheer surprise, once his gaze has traveled far enough upward. Another elf stands before him, regarding him with evident, honest curiosity.

The elf is blond, tan, more muscular than fenris. Twin dagger hilts are visible over his shoulders. Three dark, sinuous curves of a tattoo line one side of his face.

He looks dangerous, and a small smile pulls at one side of his mouth. Fenris is not comforted. 

“What do you want?”

The unknown elf blinks. “Quite businesslike, I see.”

He has a thick Antivan accent, Fenris notes. He continues speaking. “Ah… actually, I had thought to offer you something, my friend.”

Fenris bristles. “I am not your friend.”

The other gives that small smile again. “No. But it is more efficient than, say, ‘my recent acquaintance,’ and rather more pleasant than ‘my potential enemy,’ don’t you agree?”

Fenris huffs, but says nothing.

“I am Zevran Arainai.” He makes a gesture that seems a cheeky mockery of a bow. “I imagine that these sleeping arrangements are… less than comfortable. I have a private room at a nearby tavern. The Hanged Man. The bed is…” he smirks. “Quite large, larger than necessary for just one elf. There is space enough for another, if you wish.”

“And I should just trust that you will not slit my throat in my sleep?”

Zevran crouches in front of him, honey-grey eyes meeting green with a look that is too incisive for Fenris’s comfort. Zevran reaches out his hand, finger outstretched, and makes to touch the markings on Fenris’s throat.

Fenris turns his head away to avoid contact, and then tilts his head in the other direction as Zevran’s fingers chase him, and then realizes that he is doing exactly what Zevran wanted in the first place, his fingers guiding without touching so that he can examine Fenris’s tattoos.

“As fast as I am with my blades - and I am very fast,” he adds with an unselfconscious grin - “I suspect that there is more to you than meets the eye, my friend. I would not wish to test just how fast or how deadly you can be.”

“Why, then?”

“My offer? It is a cold night. I am alone, you are alone. And because…” A sad, far-off expression flits across his face, incongruous with his cockiness and the deadly power under his leather armor. “…well. I would not have done this a year ago. But it has been a long year, and I desire company.”

Fenris flinches. “I am not a whore.”

To his surprise, Zevran flinches just as he did. Possibly harder. “I apologize. I did not mean to imply that you were, and - although I would not be opposed to such activities - ” a hint of his previous cocksureness returns in his wink - “I would be content to simply share space with another. I have food, and wine. If you decide you would like to join me, ask for me with the barkeep; I will tell him to look for you.”

The Antivan elf stands up and disappears around a corner without a backward glance. Fenris curls tighter into his thin cloak.


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris does not go to the Hanged Man that night. He sleeps — fitfully, but then, he would not want to sleep soundly. Too dangerous.  
  
The next night is colder, uncharacteristic for Kirkwall even in winter. Frost spiderwebs across the ground, the dirt packed solid and hard. Even with all his armor on under his cloak, Fenris is still shivering.  
  
He holds out, huddled in a corner, until his fingers and toes start going numb. He is defenseless if he cannot run or swing his sword, and this thought holds no appeal to him. His lips press together in a thin line, but he has already made his decision; he pushes off the ground and stumbles, somewhat unsteadily as the blood returns to his feet with movement, the few streets over to the Hanged Man. He finds himself hoping the Antivan elf’s offer still stands.

The barkeep eyes him warily, but directs him to a room readily enough, shrugging as if to say,  _his funeral_. Or, perhaps,  _your funeral_.  
  
Fenris knocks on the door, and waits. The door swings open, revealing… an empty room. He pauses. Odds are, Zevran is standing behind the door. Why? Was this, in fact, a trap, luring him in with warmth and comfort? Or was Zevran expecting someone else?  
  
Long minutes pass.  
  
He continues to wait.  
  
At least he’s warm now, he thinks wryly, standing very still just outside the doorway.  
  
Eventually, he decides the stalemate is getting somewhat absurd, and considers his options. Either Zevran is waiting to ambush him, or Zevran is waiting to be ambushed. If the first — he has the advantage. Despite the inspection of his tattoos yesterday, it is unlikely that Zevran understands the full extent of his unique…  _talents_. And if the second — well, quite simply he has no desire to ambush the other elf.  
  
He reaches for his sword, just in case, and then clears his throat. Loudly. He makes it as vocal as possible, to ensure that he will be recognized.  
  
Almost immediately, he hears shuffling from behind the door. Zevran’s head pokes out, along with one hand holding a nastily-curved blade. His face splits into a grin when he sees Fenris.  
  
“Ah, hello, my friend! I did not expect to see you, since you declined my offer last night.”  
  
Fenris shuffles, looking down. “I did not mean to be presumptuous. If the offer no longer stands, I will not intrude.”  
  
“No, no! The offer is still open. Please, come in.” The door swings open wider, and Zevran steps fully into view as he sheathes his blade at his hip.  
  
He is not wearing his armor, Fenris notes. Instead, he is clothed in simple brown leather leggings that emphasize the well-defined muscles in his thighs, and a loose white tunic that falls open to his sternum, revealing bronzed skin, planes of muscle, and the spiraling end of a tattoo, a companion to the one on his cheek, black ink curling down under the fabric of his shirt —  
  
In an odd, somewhat out-of-body experience, Fenris realizes that this must be how others react to his own markings, the lines trailing down his neck and under his armor. When he looks up, Zevran is smiling at him, knowingly but not smugly, and he feels a burst of embarrassment as he realizes that he was staring. He drops his gaze and enters the room.  
  
“Wine?”  
  
He nods, and Zevran closes the door. He stops with his hand on the locking mechanism and looks at Fenris in question; the simple fact of asking permission is reassurance enough for the exhausted elf, and he nods. Zevran locks the door, and then moves to a small wooden table, opening a bottle and pouring two glasses of a deep red wine that Fenris can smell even across the room. When Zevran holds out one glass, Fenris is careful not to let their fingers brush as he accepts it.  
  
“Thank you,” he says.  
  
“You are most welcome, serah.” Zevran pauses. “Excuse my inquiry, but might I… know the name of my guest?”  
  
Fenris feels another burst of embarrassment, and hears Danarius’s voice echoing in his head,  _where are your manners, my little wolf?_  
  
He quickly banishes the voice to the darkest corners of his mind, and meets Zevran’s eyes, offering a small upwards curve of his lips as the best approximation of a smile he can manage at the moment.  
  
“My apologies. I am Fenris.”  
  
“Fenris,” Zevran echoes. He smiles more genuinely, as if in gentle demonstration and encouragement to his guest. “Please, come. Sit. Eat your fill. I imagine that your food sources have been as… luxurious as your sleeping arrangements recently.”  
  
He is right. Fenris is starving. He sits at the table, and Zevran joins him, staring into the fireplace to allow Fenris some degree of privacy as he eats bread, cheese, and meat. When he is sated, he tries to relax, forces himself to breathe slowly, sipping his wine.  
  
“Again, thank you, messere.”  
  
“Please, call me Zevran.” Zevran fidgets, swirling the dregs of the wine in his glass absently, and then looks at Fenris out of the corner of his eye. “I… am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I find myself wishing to... tell a story, now that I have an audience.” His smile is just a little self-deprecating. “Would you indulge me?”  
  
Something of that far-off expression is back in his eyes, and Fenris finds himself curious. “I… I would like that, yes.”  
  
Fenris refills his own wine glass, and then hesitates before reaching across the table to refill Zevran’s. The Antivan inclines his head as thanks, and raises his glass in a silent toast. Fenris reciprocates.  
  
They both sit back in their chairs.


	3. Chapter 3

Zevran talks. And despite himself, Fenris enjoys it, even catching a smile as it pulls at the corners of his lips a time or two. It’s more than the story itself, though hearing of the Ferelden blight from one of the three who had been with the Hero herself at the end… well.

But it’s also the sheer sound of Zevran’s voice, rich and overlaid with the crackling fire. Fenris keeps their wine glasses filled as Zevran keeps talking, and his exhaustion lifts until he only notices it by its absence. 

Zevran is honest. He tells Fenris how he came to find the Warden, and how she helped him find himself. Fenris is not shaken by the revelation that the other elf is a former Crow; there are worse things, and although he would not put it past Danarius to hire an assassin to dispatch him, he strongly suspects his ex-master would prefer to execute the capture himself.

When Zevran finishes speaking, his voice trails into silence and Fenris has to ask the obvious question, the one that for some unknown and uncomfortable reason has twisted into him without his permission.

“Did you love her?”

Zevran glances at him sideways again.

“No. I… cared about her, as one cares about family. I would have followed her to the gates of the Dark City and back. She inspired this in others. But, no. I was not in love with her.” He shrugs, almost as if he can brush off the matter with this simple movement. “She cared for another, and he for her. As for me? Crows, we are trained not to love. It… it does not end well.”

Fenris senses that there is another story here, but also that it is one Zevran does not wish to tell. He does not ask.

“So… the Warden gave herself to slay the Archdemon?”

Zevran wriggles in his chair, tension leaving him as quickly as it had appeared.

“Yes. King Alistair still mourns her, I believe. She was remarkable.”

One of Zevran’s fingers is tracing the rim of his wineglass slowly. He has curled one leg up to his chest, resting his foot on the chair, and the other leg is stretched out in front of him. Fenris sits upright with both feet on the floor, but his chest is looser now. Breathing seems easier than it has been in a very long time.

Footsteps approach in the corridor outside the room, and Zevran stills, muscles suddenly taut as his feet land silently flat on the floor. His hand goes to the dagger at his hip and his eyes sharpen from wine-fuzzed to deadly in half a second.

Fenris freezes as well, his hand on the hilt of his sword in a movement that is more reflex than thought. They both stare at the door for a long moment.

The footsteps grow louder, and pass by their door. And then they fade away, accompanied by some drunken laughter and off-key singing. Fenris breathes again, and when he turns back to Zevran the other elf has re-assumed his casual pose as if nothing had happened.

“I take it there is someone looking for you, as well.”

Zevran is perceptive, and Fenris's reactions more than gave him away. He nods, once.

“Yes.”

“Well then." Zevran settles back in his chair, eyeing his wine glass too intently. "I am beholden to no-one, and it seems you are in the same position." His eyes dart to Fenris's, and then away again. "I have my daggers, and you have a…  _very_  sizable sword.”

Something about the way he says this makes Fenris turn his gaze down, feeling heat bloom in his already-warm cheeks. He clears his throat, and glances up at Zevran through his dark eyelashes. The Antivan is smirking, and Fenris can’t help an answering half-smile. It’s a foreign movement, but it feels good.

“What are you proposing?”

“We could… be each other’s bodyguards, as it were. I have nowhere to be. I can remain in Kirkwall as long as you like, or we could travel.”

Fenris considers this idea.

“And if you are offered money to turn me over to those seeking me?”

This is dismissed with a quick shake of Zevran’s head.

“I have no need of money. and… I rather like the idea of working for myself.”

Fenris waits for Zevran to turn the question back on him. It does not come. He must give some outward sign of confusion, because Zevran chuckles.

“I have trusted others with less reason than I have to trust you. Perhaps it is foolish, but…” He shrugs again, and does not finish his sentence.

After a pause, he speaks again.

“It is getting late. Shall we retire?”

Fenris eyes the bed. It  _is_  large, as Zevran had said. And certainly more comfortable than sleeping on the ground. He nods, and glances hesitantly to Zevran, who has stripped his shirt off and placed his dagger, unsheathed, on a table at the bedside.

Zevran’s tattoos wind over his torso. They are wilder than Fenris’s, blooming along his tanned skin instead of binding, and Fenris suddenly feels constricted in his own body. It is not the first time he has felt this way, and he drains the last of his wine to relieve the feeling. It works, mostly.

He follows Zevran’s lead and removes his armor. It has been exceedingly uncomfortable sleeping in it, but given the alternative…

He strips to leggings and undershirt, and crosses to the other side of the bed. With a nod, he climbs under the bedcovers, and Zevran does the same.

The fire has burned down low, casting a dim glow on the room. The only other light comes from one candle burning on the table next to Zevran’s dagger. He looks over his shoulder at Fenris once more, and then turns back and blows out the candle, casting the room in relative darkness.

Fenris can see Zevran’s silhouette, lying on his side facing the door. He rolls over, facing the wall and the window set into it. And he sleeps.

He wakes up only once that night. At some point he and Zevran have fallen closer on the mattress. Their backs are pressed together, and it is a comforting weight, warm and muscled and  _reliable_ , against Fenris’s body. He thinks he can feel the slight expansion of Zevran’s ribs as he breathes.

The rhythm lulls him back to sleep. He dreams of shapeless peace, and of a nameless home.


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris wakes up the next morning and Zevran is gone.

He sits up quickly, sunlight falling across the bed.  It’s much,  _much_  later than he’d thought, and his eyes dart around the room, trying to determine if Zevran has left for good, has only gone out temporarily, or — he feels his heart pound uncomfortably against his ribcage — has been recaptured.

There are no obvious signs of a struggle.  Candles are still upright, tables and chairs where they were left the previous evening.

His eyes fall on the bedside table.  One of Zevran’s daggers is lying there. It is unsheathed, but aligned carefully with the bottom edge of the table, blade pointed towards the door.  The placement seems too deliberate to have been dropped in a struggle.  Zevran has stepped out, but he will be returning, Fenris concludes.

He pushes off the bedcovers, stands, and considers his armor.  He has been wearing it constantly for days, and… well, he wouldn’t mind keeping it off for a bit.  It strikes him that he feels relatively safe here, safer than he has in months; it is a novel feeling.

The food on the table is the next thing he notices.  Again, a tray of bread and cheese, along with what appears to be some fresh fruit.

As he is finishing his meal, the door bursts open and Zevran stumbles through.

Fenris shoots to his feet.  The other elf is bleeding heavily from a wound on his side, his eyes look glazed, hair matted and breathing labored.  Before he can think about his actions, he’s nudging his shoulder under Zevran’s arm, slamming and latching the door shut with his free hand and half-carrying Zevran to the bed.

“Maker, Zevran, what happened?”

Despite his injuries, the elf manages a little half-smile.  ”I ran into some… old friends.”  Together, they lower Zevran down.

“Could you… help me remove my armor?  It would be much faster than if I did it myself.”

“Yes, of course.”  Fenris’s hands fly to the clasps, Zevran’s armor leather instead of the spiked metal he wears, but armor is armor.  It is a familiar enough basic construction that he can work the pieces free with little difficulty.

Zevran sighs when the armor is free and peels his undershirt up, tacky with drying blood.  ”There is a washbin over there.”  He gestures with his chin, and Fenris goes to fetch it.  He hears ripping cloth and turns back, bin and cloth in hand, to see Zevran tearing his undershirt into strips.

“May I ask one thing more of you?  Go to the innkeeper downstairs, ask for a needle and thread.”  Fenris flinches; the gash must be deeper than he thought.  It’s bleeding too much to tell.

That’s when he notices that Zevran’s face is paling.

He nods and makes for the door but turns, darting back to the bedside table.  He places Zevran’s dagger on the bed next to him, right by his hand if he should need it.

“Just… in case.”

Zevran looks up at him seriously.  ”Thank you.  Please hurry.”

And he’s gone.

*

Five excruciatingly long minutes later, the innkeeper finishes rustling around in his drawers, triumphantly holding up an old needle and a spool of thin black thread.

Fenris manages a tight smile and a quick  _thanks_  and takes the items, sprinting back to the room.  He skids to a stop.  The door is ajar.

He closed it.  He’s  _sure_  he closed it.

He edges around to peek through the crack and sees a burly man in heavy armor stagger backwards from the bed, sees Zevran’s dagger bloody, and then with an angry snarl the man raises his blade and —

— that’s about when Fenris stops thinking, reflexes taking over as he phases across the room in a blue flare and closes his hand around the man’s heart without a second thought.

He feels it stop beating in his grip, and he calmly removes his hand and lets the body slide to the floor.

Zevran is gaping up at him in open shock.

“How did —”

“I will explain, later.”  He crosses the room to close and latch the door, and then retrieves and threads the needle.  He lights a candle from the fire’s embers and holds the point of the needle over it until it turns orange and then white.  ”Would you like me to do this, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

Zevran wordlessly holds out his hand.  Fenris gives the needle to him and forces himself to watch the careful stitching, making sure that Zevran’s hand is steady and that the wound closes.

The injured elf lets out a long breath when he is finished, cutting the excess thread with his dagger.  Fenris takes the bloody needle and thread and sets it aside, out of sight.

Zevran’s hands start to shake.  They had been solid and sure as he stitched himself together.

Fenris reaches over with the wet cloth, doing his best to rinse it clean in the reddened water, and then dabs gently at Zevran’s side, clearing away the rest of the blood.

“Thank you.”

He nods, and then smiles wryly.  ”Just how many of your ‘old friends’ were there?”

Zevran chuckles a little and it turns into a wheeze.  ”Oh, no more than a score or so.”

“A score—!”

“He was the last one.  Got in a lucky blow, and I had to escape.  I suppose he followed me and thought he’d finish the job.”

Fenris shakes his head.  ”He very nearly did.”

Zevran fixes him with a raised eyebrow.  ”And, if I may ask,  _how_  exactly did you stop him?  Not that I am complaining, of course.”

So, Fenris explains about the lyrium brands.  And because he is explaining about the lyrium brands he finds himself explaining about Danarius, Tevinter, the amnesia, his escape, the Fog Warriors…

It all spills out but Zevran’s sharply intelligent gaze does not make him feel ashamed or regretful.  He helps bandage up the other elf as he speaks, his hands moving busily to distract himself from what he is saying.

When his story is done, Zevran’s hand finds its way over his own, carefully light over his markings.

“You saved my life today.  I am in your debt.  I will not forget it.”

He looks up and meets Zevran’s eyes, and they share a smile.

“I know.”


	5. Chapter 5

Together, they finish tending to Zevran's injuries.  He smiles and thanks Fenris afterwards, and his voice sounds stronger.

"It may be a good idea to replenish our food before sundown," he says, and Fenris realizes how hungry he must be, not having eaten since the morning.

"Yes, of course, I shall --"

"Here."  Zevran is holding out a small silver key.  He accepts it, confused, but then Zevran gestures to a nondescript chest in one corner of the room, half-covered by what looks to be an old cloak.  As he walks over to it, the other elf calls out, "Take however much you need."

It's full of coins.  He suppresses the immediate reaction of  _gaping_ , and scoops a small handful into a belt pouch.

"I shan't be long," he says, glancing over his shoulder and meeting honey-colored eyes watching him from the bed.

"I know."

*

He isn't long, but it is later than he thought and the sun is starting to set by the time he returns.  He raps on the door sharply a few times and calls out, "It's me," before entering.  It turns out that he needn't have bothered; Zevran is fast asleep on the bed.

He frowns.  For an assassin, that much commotion should have woken him up.

He goes over to the bed and notices that there's a bit of blood seeping through the bandages.  They'll need to change those.

He reaches down and gingerly touches Zevran's bare shoulder.

His fingers start to trace the black ink against the tanned skin before he catches himself.  He balls his hand into a fist and then sticks out one finger to prod the elf.   _Safer_.

"Zevran?"

In a blur of motion Zevran's eyes snap open and his right hand closes on the dagger by his side.  Fenris is prepared and grabs his wrist as the dagger slashes towards his throat, and that split second is enough for Zevran to come fully awake and stop himself.

"I - I apologize."  He is breathing heavily.  Fenris shakes his head.

"It is I who should be apologizing.  I did not mean to startle you, but you were more deeply asleep than I'd thought."

Zevran looks down at his stomach, at the red staining the bandages, and grimaces.

"I suppose my body was trying to tell me something.  Would you hand me the bandages?"

Fenris retrieves the extra cloth, and after a brief hesitation grabs the washbasin, filled with fresh water, and a rag.  Zevran is unwinding the bandages from himself when he returns to the bedside; he sets the bloodied wraps to the side and then stills abruptly when Fenris reaches out with the wet rag.

Their eyes meet briefly, and Fenris looks away first, on the pretense of focusing on his task.  He tries to ignore the goosebumps rising along Zevran's arms and the hard peaks of his nipples just above the gash.

"Are you in pain?"  His voice is rough and he has to clear his throat.

"No more than I can handle.  Thank you."  By contrast, Zevran's voice is just the same as it always is, smooth and darkly musical.  Fenris huffs in frustration that the contact should so obviously affect him but not the other.

"I didn't  _ask_  you whether it was more than you could handle," he growls, turning away to replace the washbasin.  Zevran's fingers circle his wrist and freeze him in place.

"I am in pain, but -- less so, now.  Again, thank you."

He makes a noncommittal noise and pulls free of Zevran's fingers, feeling a flash of disappointment that they didn't hold him more tightly.  On his way back, he stops and fetches food and a small cluster of vials from the pouch he'd set on the floor when he'd returned.  He places the vials on the side table next to Zevran, and they share their food in silence.

It is less comfortable than the previous night, but more comfortable than many meals Fenris has shared with only himself as company.

When they finish, Fenris repacks the leftover food and circles the room, blowing out candles one by one.  He leaves the one on Zevran's table for last.

"These are health potions.  More anaesthetic than anything else.  If you feel in too much pain, take one."

Zevran nods, and Fenris blows out the last candle, making his way to his side of the bed by the dim moonlight slatting through the window.  He slides under the covers and does not turn to look at Zevran before he falls asleep.

*

He sleeps soundly enough but is awakened suddenly, sometime near dawn, before the sun has started to rise but when the dark has already begun to relinquish its hold.  It takes a few seconds to orient himself, but he realizes that Zevran is whimpering softly.  He rolls over and sees that the elf is still asleep, but is curled into himself, holding his stomach.

Fenris swears to himself, and reaches across Zevran to grab one of the vials on the table, calling his name quietly to try and bring him to awareness.

He blinks, finally, and his eyes are full of pain.

"...Fenris?"

"Here."  Fenris hesitates, but then decides that what must be done  _must be done_ , and slides a hand under Zevran's neck to help prop his head upright, pulling the stopper out of the vial with his teeth.  Careful not to spill, he tilts the vial to Zevran's lips, and holds it steady until all the liquid has been drunk.

He tries very hard not to watch the bob of Zevran's throat as he swallows.

Once the vial is empty, he reaches across Zevran again to set it on the table, and this is when he makes his vital mistake.  He looks down, his body stretched across Zevran's, and catches him watching, eyes raking up and down his body with a hunger that lodges in his throat and burns in his belly.

Zevran's hand rises, and time seems slowed, almost as if he is moving through thick honey.  His fingertips caress Fenris's cheek and his thumb hovers over, but does not touch, his lyrium markings.  Fenris leans into his hand.  He feels like he cannot control his own body, like his movements are controlled by someone else, as he lowers his head, feels Zevran's breath across his mouth.  His hand is caressing Zevran's uninjured side, and then the other elf tilts his head up and closes the distance, their lips brushing together, and he lets out a gasp as a little puff of air and noise.

Zevran keeps his eyes open, watching Fenris's reaction, and even as dizzy as he is he knows, deep and sure, that Zevran is ready to break off the kiss and let go at his first sign of discomfort.

He is not uncomfortable, and that scares him -- but he wants this.  He  _wants_ , simply, purely, for the first time in years and he lets himself melt into the kiss.

His eyes slide shut.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for sexual abuse flashbacks.
> 
> apologies for the long delay between updates. thanks for being patient with me, everyone. <3

Zevran’s lips are soft under his, and he lets his weight settle over Zevran’s thigh.  The other elf’s hands are combing through his hair, sliding down his body, resting at his hip and rubbing hot circles against his skin even through his thin undershirt.

He feels his cock swelling gently and he knows Zevran feels it too, lips curving into a soft smile, thigh pressing against Fenris’s crotch, shooting off sparks of pleasure behind his eyes as his breath catches in his throat. His hips push forward in response and Zevran’s tongue slides between his lips and his fingers curl against Zevran’s waist, other hand still cupping the back of his neck. When he whimpers quietly, Zevran chuckles against his mouth and slides one hand from his hip to the front of his leggings and closes his fingers around Fenris’s length and –

\-- and suddenly it’s not Zevran but Danarius, his laughter cold and mocking, and Fenris’s ears go red with shame at not being able to control his body’s reaction to being touched, he curls in on himself and tries to pull away and the fingers on his cock suddenly disappear, firm strong hands on his shoulders instead, pushing him onto his back.  He hardly notices when the hands disappear too.

When he blinks his eyes open, angry tears tracking down his cheeks, it takes a few moments to orient himself to the unfamiliar room, the mattress harder than Danarius’s was, mustiness replacing the over-sweet floral sachets and strong oily-waxy smell of the magister’s mansion.  He sits up and scoots back until he can feel the headboard behind him, and his eyes finally settle on the other elf at the far end of the bed.

Zevran is watching him calmly, small crease between his brows and uncharacteristically serious set to his jaw the only indicators that anything is wrong.  His legs are crossed and his hands rest nonthreateningly in his lap.  The candle on the bedside table has been lit, the only source of illumination in the dark room.

“I am sorry,” Zevran says, and Fenris has to look away, embarrassment and anger at himself crawling up his throat.

“You have no reason to apologize,” he manages, and pushes off the bed to gather his things.  “I should leave.  Good luck, and…”  He pauses in the act of picking up his gauntlets.  “Be careful.”

He moves towards the door, and faster than Zevran _should_ be able to move given the gaping wound in his side, the Antivan is in front of him, back pressed against the door and hands held up placatingly.

“Tell me to move, push me aside, simply say that you wish to go and I will not stand in your way.  But please, may I say something first?”

Fenris nods, lips pressed tight together.

“I did not invite you here with the intention of bedding you.  One kiss changes nothing; your decisions are your own and I willingly share my room with you for as long as you wish to stay, intimately or no.  If shame is why you would leave…”  Zevran drops his gaze for a moment, looking up again with a rueful, regretful smile.  “You are not alone in that.  And I sometimes find that shame cuts less deeply if it can be shared.”

Now that Fenris is taking a moment to really look at him in return, he sees pained breathing in the slow movements of Zevran’s chest, favoring his injured side, hands unsteady.  It occurs to him that Zevran has never been less than genuine in his words or actions.

It occurs to him that he cannot remember feeling safer in another’s presence than he does now.

He takes a step forward, and Zevran silently moves away from the door, watching him.  He could leave.  Zevran would not follow him, he is sure.

His next step brings him closer to Zevran, not the door, and he places his hand on Zevran’s elbow, guides the other elf’s arm around his neck.

He feels the moment that Zevran relaxes into his support, and only then realizes how tense he must have been.  He wonders whether the tenseness was from pain or from…

Fenris does not let himself consider other possibilities.  They make their way back to the bed, déjà vu washing over him at the act, and he helps Zevran sit again.  He cannot raise his eyes from the floor as he replaces his armor from where he had gathered it up.

“I suspect I will not be able to return to sleep for a while yet,” Zevran says mildly.  “But you are welcome to.  I will…”

He trails off, and Fenris instinctively finishes the sentence in his mind, recoiling from the thought even as he knows it to be true: _you will watch over me_.

Zevran settles back against the headboard, arranging his pillow behind his back and releasing a long quiet sigh as his muscles relax, one hand resting near the wound on his side.  Fenris watches him out of the corner of his eye, and after a few moments Zevran’s gaze unfocuses, as if he is deep in thought.

He slides under the bedsheet with his back to Zevran, and curls up as small as he can make himself.

It takes him a very long time to fall back to sleep, and from the steady controlled rhythm of Zevran’s breath, he knows the assassin lies awake next to him for even longer.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sincerest apologies for the massive delay on this chapter. i am slowly coming back to updating my multi-chapter fics, so hopefully i'll make more consistent progress! if you want more regular updates i am also on [tumblr](antivanrogue.tumblr.com).

Zevran heals, slowly, and Fenris sleeps just on the edge of the bed every night, trying not to touch his bedmate too much – or at all, if he can help it.  He is certain that Zevran notices his distance, but when they are awake they converse almost as casually as they did before the incident.

Fenris thinks more than once about leaving, sneaking away in the middle of the night, but then he remembers the way Zevran still cannot move quickly.  He remembers the way he did not even have to think when Zevran’s life was threatened.

Sometimes when he remembers these things, he looks up to find Zevran watching him, and he has to look away.

They never go out together: one wanted elf is dangerous enough, but two, especially two as distinctive as they, would draw far too much attention.  Fenris is accustomed to hiding, and does not mind staying in the inn – but Zevran gets twitchy, feet tapping on the floor, fingers drumming on the table, eyes darting between the door and the window.

So, one day, Fenris musters a smile, and tries to adopt a casual tone of voice.

“Shall we go for a stroll?”

Zevran looks at him as if he’s gone mad, and he realizes that his reasoning wasn’t quite obvious.

“I thought that… we could go to the Wounded Coast.  Leaving separately, of course.  But I would not want you to be so far from here alone.”  Here, his smile becomes somewhat more genuine.  “We did, after all, agree to protect each other.”

The look Zevran gives him makes him shift uncomfortably in his chair.  He has no ulterior motives, but he cannot help feeling that if he did, they would be found out and held up to the light for examination.

And then, his face breaks into the grin that Fenris has not seen for weeks.

“I would enjoy that immensely, I think.  When do we leave?”

“As soon as you like.”

So they agree on separate paths, and Zevran sets out first, with a glance over his shoulder as he leaves the room.  Fenris waits, sitting first on the bed, then standing to look out the window, pacing about the room and sitting on the edge of the table before returning to his perch on the bed.  He feels bizarrely nervous, and after a quarter of an hour he leaves as well.

They both wore their armor for this excursion, and Fenris notices, as he often does, that a few heads turn as he walks past.  He pulls his hood up further – warmer weather be damned, his hair and tattoos are too noticeable to risk it – and walks a bit faster to get out of the city.

The walk to the Wounded Coast is short and empty.  Fenris lifts his head when he can smell the sea, fresher out here than the filthy water of Kirkwall’s harbor.  The sun is high, and the air is brisk but not cold.

He sees a flash of blond out of the corner of his eye, and realizes that he’s being followed.  His steps slow, become more measured and deliberate, and he veers off to take a longer route to the agreed-upon meeting place with Zevran, hoping to draw out the stalker before one target becomes two.

Though, now that he considers it, he and Zevran together might have a better chance at success.  He’s only seen one person, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more.

He flexes his fingers and feels the lyrium buzz along his skin.

When the attack comes, he’s ready for it, of course.  Twin blades whirl at him out of thin air, and he drops to the ground, swinging his leg out to catch the ankle of his attacker.  He draws his greatsword in the same fluid motion and brings it up, colliding with the daggers that arc toward his throat even as the assailant falls.

Fenris feels a hand close on the collar of his armor.  It wrenches him, not hard enough to pull him to the ground, but hard enough to throw off his balance.  The next time the daggers come, he wobbles, and a leg twists around his knee, forcing him to fall.

He lands on his back, glows blue in a desperate last attempt – he wishes Zevran were here, doesn’t want to go out like this – as the mystery assassin lands atop him, blades ready to strike.

It’s Zevran.

He’s grinning like a madman, hair wild and only just held back by his braids, cheeks flushed and chest heaving.  Fenris is so stunned that his lyrium fizzles out, and Zevran presses a dagger to his throat, not near hard enough to cut, but hard enough that Fenris can feel the pressure.

He swallows.  So this is the betrayal he was waiting for – the betrayal he had stopped expecting.

“Who is paying you?” he asks.  “Is it Danarius?”

Zevran blinks, cocks his head.  “Paying me?”  Then his eyes widen.  He jumps off of Fenris as though he’s been struck by lightning, and holds out his hand to help Fenris up.

Fenris does not accept it, but stands on his own, and takes a few steps away.

“Then why?”

Zevran seems agitated.  “For sport, no?  I did not intend – I apologize, I believed you had seen me, and – ”

And, of course, Fenris understands – but this does not mean that he is pleased.

“Why would you – ?  Knowing full well what I have endured, how long I have been hunted, you turn this into a _game_?  We both could have been hurt, you are not yet fully healed, and you know what I am capable of.  You know I could have killed you.”

Here Zevran’s eyebrows knit together.  “I thought I understood your anger, and I did not intend to betray the trust you have placed in me.  And yet – you now are angry because you might have killed _me_?”

He appears to be suppressing a smile, and Fenris feels a snarl building.

“Yes, because – because it is unthinkable and it would be your fault, and how could I live with myself if – ?”

Zevran takes a few steps closer, and Fenris only backs up one step.

“Thank you for caring about me, yet again.”  Zevran’s voice is soft and Fenris realizes anew how thick his accent is.

He finds that despite their slowly-rebuilding friendship, despite the progress they have made over the last few weeks, he still has to look away.


End file.
